Knit Two
by Pecandy
Summary: Sherlock is knitting then smut happens, shameless shameless smut from a tumblr prompt!


John comes home from actual work to find Sherlock knitting. Sherlock insists that it's for a case, but John is mesmerized by Sherlock's very long, elegant fingers doing such quick and fluid motions. Insert smut here.

Twelve hours. Twelve bloody hours in a row, listening to sneezes and coughs and complaints of hundreds of over-worried parents and college students and oh god why had the other physician just i_have/i_ to quit today?

John slammed the door shut behind him, immediately chastising himself. The door didn't quit with no notice. Doctor Robert fucking Corade did. He took a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to calm down. When the blood finally stopped pounding in his ears, he heard a soft, rhythmic clicking sound from the living room. "Sherlock, if you're masturbating in the living room, I hope you brought some towels to clean up this time."

"What, no 'Honey, I'm home?'" His voice was calm and even. Good. As hot as that could be any other day, John was absolutely not in the mood for cleaning up after a fully-grown man right now, thank you very much. What he needed today was some sleep. Maybe a long, hot bath before.

He stepped into the living room cautiously. God knows what Sherlock was doing at any given time- he could be just tapping his foot with anticipation, or he could be working out CO2 bubbles from an explosive plastic cat. Never could be too careful.

But no amount of foresight could have prepared John for the sight of Sherlock, sitting on his chair in his pyjamas, knitting a long green scarf. "Sherlock."

"Mmm." He didn't even look up, seemingly immersed in his knit-one perl-twos.

"What in God's name-"

"Knitting, John."

"I have eyes. Why are you knitting in your nighties?"

"Woman was in her late eighties, said she knit her fingers bloody. I'm almost certain it was her rabid Chihuahua, but I haven't any experience with it. Can't go around making blind assumptions. As for the pyjamas, it's night time and I'm presumably not going anywhere else today." Sherlock still didn't look up from his fingerwork. And those fingers… John had a hard time looking away from them under normal circumstances, but now… so long, practiced, steady… he felt himself redden.

"How long have you been at that?" The scarf was at least four feet long.

"Six hours."

_iFuck, fucking shit…_ /iholy stamina. Holy fucking finger stamina. Was that even possible? John was pretty sure his fingers would be bleeding too. Or at least throbbing. But Sherlock's were smooth, elegant as always. After a long pause, John realized with mortification that he'd been staring for at least a minute, and that his cock had become at least half-hard in that minute. "Well. I'm beat. I'll see you in the morning, good luck with the scarf." He started to walk towards his room when Sherlock stopped him.

"Come here."

"I'm exhausted."

"No you're not. Take your pants off and come here. We could both benefit from a distraction now, don't you think?"

_Well_. He thought briefly about putting on a show of annoyance, but what was the point? They both knew how much he loved Sherlock's fingers. He stepped out of his pants- yep, half-hard already- and walked over to where Sherlock was seated.

Sherlock set aside his scarf and looked at John. "On your knees." John lowered himself, pausing halfway down to share a slightly dirty, sloppy, wet open-mouthed kiss with Sherlock. When he finally pulled away to sink to his knees, he could see Sherlock's cock making a small tent in the soft fabric of his pyjamas.

Sherlock put a hand over John's mouth. "You like my fingers." He made a swift, complicated motion over them, rolling them back before thrumming them against John's lips. John with a moan, licking Sherlock's fingers before opening his mouth and sucking them in. Sherlock stared at him, his eyes intense and his mouth slack. "You're going to suck me while I finger you."

John moaned and pulled back. "Tell me you have lube hidden in some strange crevice around here?"

"Coffee table, beside the anatomy books."

"Thank god, you marvelous pervert." Sherlock grinned and John threw the tube over to him. As he worked those long, spidery fingers to open the bottle, John slowly slid off Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't wearing pants, which made it all the easier for John to lick all around his cock. He loved Sherlock's cock almost as much as his fingers- so long, thick, dark, so very proportionately Sherlock. And the smell… he pressed his nose into Sherlock's thick shock of pubic hair, inhaling his scent deeply as he sucked at the skin just above Sherlock's dick.

Sherlock sharply gasped and John felt his hips jerk up a little, his hard prick poking at his neck. But when he felt Sherlock's wet, cool fingers swiping over the round flesh of his butt, he couldn't control a sharp sound from ripping out of his chest. Sherlock drew it out, teasing all over with those fingers almost cruelly before finally tracing John's hole. Eagerly, John drew a breath in and closed his eyes, waiting, praying for those fingers to enter him; but Sherlock just kept drawing light meaningless patterns over him.

"Sherlock, I swear to god, if you don't-" and Sherlock pressed two fingers to the second knuckle. John curled and groaned before coming back to himself. He had a job to do, too. He kissed the head of Sherlock's cock wetly, started to take a bit into his mouth when Sherlock thrust out and further into him. He moaned and curled forward, taking more than half of Sherlock cock into his mouth. Sherlock made a guttural sound above him and pressed his fingers back in.

"John…" he said breathily. John felt Sherlock's fingers wriggle experimentally inside of him. "The angle is a bit…" He trailed off when John took him all the way down and sucked hard. "Sorry, I'll get it soon," he crooked his fingers and John tensed, feeling the sharp, familiar pressure in his cock and spine. "Ah. Found it."

His fingers started thrusting in and out more quickly. John felt himself coming apart, so intense, so smooth. He pulled off Sherlock, stroking him with his hand as he spoke thickly. "All the way in, Sherlock, I need more…"

Sherlock made a humming sound above him and John felt his fingers press deep inside him, felt Sherlock's palm rest up against his arse. He started sucking Sherlock again, hoping his uncontrollable moaning was making up for his lack of finesse. He was too far gone to concentrate fully on what his mouth was doing. Sherlock was breathing heavily above him, he must be doing something right.

Sherlock was barely thrusting anymore, just rutting his fingers against John's prostate with firm little motions. And it was perfect. John felt his orgasm building, felt his balls starting to draw up against his body. Desperately, he made a few moans against Sherlock and grabbed his leg. Sherlock responded by concentrating the motions, making them faster, firmer. John fought his mouth to stay open as he came, moaning and tensing and shuddering against Sherlock's thigh.

When he calmed Sherlock removed his fingers gingerly and stroked his cheek with his other hand. "John, that was…" John hummed and kept sucking as he pushed Sherlock's thighs apart, dipping one hand down to the wetness on Sherlock's left calf. "What are-" He stopped when John pressed a wet knuckle against his hole, his speech reduced down to filthy whimpers and moans. It took barely a minute for him to come, shooting into John's mouth and grabbing his hair hard enough to hurt deliciously.

The two sat panting for a moment. John rolled over to on his back, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully before he started laughing. "What now?" Sherlock asked, a smile on his lips.

"Knitting? Really?"

"I don't know anything about it and I'm not about to waste money on those dreadful books in the little girls' side of the store."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're impractical. I've no idea what you'd suggest instead."

"I suppose," he said, trailing off. A few quiet minutes passed before John burst out laughing again. "I'm sorry I'm sorry just, you, knitting. I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at him. John would've thought he was angry if he didn't know him well enough to see that brief, tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. "If you don't stop, I might have to find a way to shut you up."

"Oh? And just what might that entail?"

Sherlock picked up his knitting needle and danced his fingers over it. His little mouth quirk grew into a full, wolfish grin. "I wonder. Just what could do with this long, blunt object that might stop your incessant giggling?"

John raised his eyebrows. "You kinky bastard."

"You love it." He got up and swiped a finger over the come on his leg, pressing some onto the needle and sucking it into his mouth. "Come to my room."


End file.
